String of Murder

by brett hicks

  Twenty-Three:

  I walked over to the back-rooms bar, and I ordered two pints of ale. When in the company of civilized murderers, it’s best to come with alcohol to grease the wheels of conversation. The room was dimly lit as if designed specifically to give the ire feeling of a proper back-room transaction. Several patrons took notice of me, and I knew that all eyes were following my movements, even if they seemed to be preoccupied with conversation, or drink. I am a detective, so criminals will watch my moves carefully.

  My particular criminal for the night was in the very back booth with ashy grey- tinted tabletop blocking out most of his body from view. Teddy was in his sixties, and he looked grizzled like he had actually gone three full rounds in a boxing ring with an actual grizzly bear. He had crisscrossing scars marring his cheeks on both sides of his face. He also had two very long burns that trailed down from his lower right cheek, all the way into his shirt. Being the curious little beaver that I was, I had always wondered just how far that scar ran, and what had caused it—not that I felt like asking him!

  Teddy was sipping on a pint, and it was only about half full now. He had a cigar in his other hand, and he was about to light it, or so it seemed. I approached slowly, both hands were laden with ale, so hopefully, everyone would consider it poor decorum to attack while I carried beer. I could easily drop the beer, or use it as a throwing object, then draw a dirk and my gun at the same time. A girl needs to keep her options open when in a room with dirt-bags, even civilized dirtbags.

  Teddy Angel’s dead eyes caught sight of me, and if my arrival had any impact on his mood, he didn’t show it in his cold dispassionate expression. He took the poker face and turned it into something more akin to monstrous callousness. Even if you didn’t know who he was, his presence in a room sent the hairs on your body tingling, and your gut became a large block of ice. Your brain screams at you, “Run stupid, not that way!”

  I quirked a brow in silent question, and Teddy looked down at the opposite seat in his version of invitation. I had become familiar with Teddy Angel’s strange behavior over the years. He was like a grim reaper, a fabled man of death, except he was very much a living, breathing man. His hair shone in the dim light, his silver had completely blotted out all trace of his original color. When I first met him, he still had a few patches of sandy-brown hair mixed in. Even though he had aged noticeably in the past eight years, he still looked to be as fit, and healthy as a man in his prime. Teddy must stay busy in some manner that works his body hard.

  He drained the rest of his ale, and I sat down, and I slid him a new ale. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He put his cigar in his mouth, and he struck a match across the side of the table, and he began to puff on the cigar, causing plumes of smoke to cloud the air above us.

  “Here I thought you had developed some more sense, considering you managed to avoid me for a whole five weeks this time.”

  Teddy Angel said by way of greeting. I smirked at him, and my eyes were dancing with mirth.

  “My teachers always told me I lacked sense.”

  “Courage favors the stupid, and the senseless, if you ask me, lass.”

  His rich Britannia accent always sent chills up my spine. His tone was the same as the men who had killed my parents so long ago, and his line of work had not been so dissimilar to their own. Teddy could have been the one sent for me, but then I would have been dead. Even now, I am not sure if I could take him in a fight. Teddy Angel moves with the practiced ease of a true veteran.

  “How are you Teddy, how’s that ole dog of yours?”

  Teddy smiled a frosty smile; his dog might be about the only thing capable of bringing any emotion to his features. This made it a very safe go-to topic to begin the conversation with.

  “Bess is putting on a real fit, bloody raccoons mucking about in my garbage cans. I’ve been trying to catch them, so I can set them loose in the wild, but the beasts are elusive.”

  I bit my lip, and I nodded slightly. I took a quick sip of my own ale, and Teddy eyed me with a dispassionate look, it might have been observation, or it could have even been his form of curiosity. He was an island of a man, so I didn’t feel too surprised when I discovered Teddy seemed to enjoy these conversations of ours, even if they were few and far between. I am currently the only person stupid enough to walk up to him and strike up a conversation. That didn’t give me some sense of security around him. From the wintery looks Teddy gave, he could probably drop me down a mine shaft, and leave me with two broken legs and let me starve to death, for all he cared.

  “Racoons? That’s not very typical for Nexus City.”

  Teddy took a casual sip of the ale, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he trusted anyone to hand him a drink after a lifetime of murder. As if he read my mind, he said, “You’re too honest, even with your petty lies. I could always tell a poisoner’s look, that eager gleam of anticipation at the recipient’s first sip of death.”

  I nodded dumbly, and I said, “Yep, that’s me, simple and honest.”

  Teddy gave me a look, one I still couldn’t read, even after eight-plus years of knowing him.

  “You would be surprised how I measure deception little lassie.”

  I took a sip of my ale, and I enjoyed the chill and the slightly bitter bite of the alcohol.

  “I’ll just have to take your word for that.”

  I said, and I smiled, Teddy sat the ale down and just looked at me for a long moment.

  “So, you’re here, and there have been two murders. If my math is correct, then that means this is a guaranteed business meeting.”

  I nodded, and I said, “Yes sir, I’m here to see what you might know about a certain type of killing MO. This case is strange, it has two very contradictory types of mentalities working, at least from what the murders themselves are telling me.”

  Teddy puffed on his cigar, and he eyed me for a long moment.

  “I find it intriguing that you admit to the dead speaking to you. Most of your generation don’t seem to realize that the dead still have a voice.”

  I blinked, and I sipped at my ale again. I was going to have to slow the hell down, between this, and my two glasses with Thomas, I was going to end up tilted. I had a very strong drinking constitution, but I was also still a slender girl, so I could hardly drink like a man twice my size. Though I had seen many women who could, but I would never want to be in their shoes!

  “Why don’t you tell me about the murders, the facts, and your observations, and then I can give you some insight.”

  Teddy said in his cold tone. I licked my lips and I cleared my throat lowly.

  “Right, thanks, Teddy. The first detail to note, the first body discovered, was actually the second one dead, but we found her much faster.”

  I began to walk him through everything I knew about Donna Smithfield’s murder, and what we had gathered to be the timeline. I took Teddy step-by-step through my investigation, and I included the cause of death. Teddy was an ex-Brit assassin, so he wasn’t going to tell anyone how these victims were killed. Though, I generally never discuss such sensitive details with an outsider.

  I told him about the first victim, second crime scene. I told him about Mary Sanders, and about Avery. I told him how I found Avery, and how we discovered her mom’s body two days later. I told him about the physical description, and everything Avery had seen. Teddy Angel gritted his teeth, and he looked at me with what must have been the most emotional expression I had ever seen on his face. I was so thrown at first, I nearly reached for my gun it was so surprising!

  “You need to get the hell out of here, and you need to go move the child to a new location, now! You are not dealing with a mob punk, you need to run, run fast, and far! You are all going to die.”

  Twenty-Four:

  What do you say when a former assassin tells you to pack your shit and run?! There was a lot of evidence to point to a serial killer, but now I was beginning to believe that I was dealing with a hired gun—so to
speak. Teddy Angel wouldn’t make a fuss over a random sicko with a fetish for strangulating women with metal chords. He was not rattled, that I knew of, by anything at all. This case had now taken a turn for the worse. I needed to speak to the ex-husband of Donna Smithfield again. I had felt like he was holding back on me before, so I was going to lean on him for more information.

  In the meantime, I called Bobby at home, and I told him what Teddy Angel said. He had agreed—reluctantly—to go and move Avery. Then I called Maria and told her to take Avery to her apartment until Bobby arrived. Maria had not made any fuss or complained about the possibility of an assassin crossing her path. She took Avery, and she was now held up in her apartment.

  With everyone else moving in a defensive pattern, I was only playing fast and loose with my own life now. That was something I could live with, even if it did give my partner stomach pains. Poor Bobby, I was going to have to spend a very generous amount on his Solstice present this year! Perhaps the Captain would be merciful and grant him a less crazy partner! (I wasn’t going to hold my breath on that one.)

  I roared down the roar with my steam engine maxing out the speed limiter. My gauges were all deep into redline, and my exhaust pipe roared with fury. I wove through traffic as if the other bikes and cabs were standing still. My mind had always been sharp, and my eyes could track motion at incredible rates of speed. Add to that, my reflexes, and you had the world’s fastest steam bike rider! In another life, mayhap I could have even been a racing biker!

  It was late out, so I had to rush over to Mr. Smithfield’s apartment. He lived on the ground now that he was divorced. His building was located within walking distance of his east-end newspaper office. Rent in this section wasn’t cheap since everyone working in the large corporate sector were all vying for apartments here. Eastern Nexus was the most prominent place to live, ground or skyline.

  I nearly swiped the side of a few passing cabs, and I received more than my fair share of southern salutes in response. I even passed a few patrol officers in a cab, but they seemed to think twice about trying to catch up to me, just to see what the hell my problem was. Every bobby I passed was screaming at the top of their lungs for me to stop—as if that ever worked!

  The city became more and more of a blur, and I was thoroughly pushing my poor bike well beyond its capacity. After what felt like an eternity of heart-pounding thrills and excitement, I arrived at Lester Street, the home of my widower. When I climbed off my bike, I felt like my bones were vibrating out of my skin, thanks to my crazy driving. I rested my right hand over my right hip, and my .357. I didn’t know for sure what Mr. Smithfield’s role was in this case, yet. I intended to find out before I left his residence tonight, then I was going to make sure that Avery was far away from danger. She was the only witness alive to connect this assassin to the murders. Sting was basically an unreliable witness in the eyes of the law. While I believed him, and I knew he would never lie about being set upon by a red-haired man, the Brits, and the barristers of criminal defense lawyer could easily claim he was paid to aid our case.

  One thing was obvious to me, and to this killer, Avery Sanders could undo whatever he was trying to accomplish here. It did not escape my notice, that I was also now in danger as well. I was too deep into this, and I knew too much about this individual. I had no disillusionment that he would stop with killing innocent mothers, and not cross-over to killing a female detective. No, this man was soulless, and he was going to keep killing, so long as he was gaining whatever it was that motivated him. I still had so many unanswered questions in this case.

  The ex-husband lived on the second floor, so I didn’t have a long climb up the steps. I could hear music playing. The song was sorrowful, and the music was subdued, drowning the hall in the depressive atmosphere of loss and grief. I approached the door, and I knocked loudly enough to be heard over the record player. After a few beats, I heard the clumping of large masculine footfalls.

  Roger Smithfield was at the door with a snub-nosed revolver in his hand. I eyed the small gun with weariness, but this was far from the first time I had a gun pointed in my face. Roger narrowed his eyes at me, and he didn’t lower the gun.

  “You’re not welcome here!”

  Part of me felt relieved to deduce that his fear was that I had come to silence him. I nodded slightly towards the gun.

  “That’s hardly necessary Mr. Smithfield. If I were sent by the same people who killed your wife, then I would have come in through the window, like the assassin sent to snuff out Mary Sanders, or picked the lock on your door while your music drowns out any sound I might make.”

  He didn’t look comforted in the least, and I huffed in annoyance.

  “Do you really want to have this conversation in the damn hall?! Who knows what might be overheard!”

  That seemed to convince him enough to let me in. He stepped back but kept the gun held up at the ready. His hand was firm, unflinching, and his eyes seemed to be keen for a newspaper man. His posture spoke of training, of military conditioning. He was colonial, and there were only two types of colonial soldiers, the fodder for the British western expansion, and the hidden army of the revolutionaries. I licked my lips, and I began to think faster than my steam bike driving.

  One of the victims had a revolutionary brand covering her stripes and stars tattoo. The other had birthing scars, the scars of a British woman birthing new Colonial children. Her entrance into the cause was for her children, and for her husband. This was an assassin, and the reason why Teddy Angel said nothing more than to grab my kid and run, was because he still felt some honor binding him to silence about a fellow assassin for the British Crown. Without speaking a word, I knew how these illogical pieces fit together neatly, and what the picture displayed once completed.

  “Where is your sink?”

  I asked, and he frowned at me, and I huffed in annoyance.

  “Please, indulge me, I will even let you disarm me if that will put your mind at ease.”

  Not that he needed to know I had five daggers, and a lifetime of savage training.

  “Just through the left, just keep your hands where I can see them, and tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “It will be much easier for you to know you can trust me if I just show you who I am.”

  I said, and I swallowed my bundle of nerves. Besides Jasmine, I had never let anyone see my scars. My expensive cosmetics hid them so well that you would almost swear I was a flawless beauty in the prime of my life, not a marred creature of ruination. My scars were so distinctive, so unique, that everyone had heard of me. I was a myth, a legend, and a cautionary tale to bad little colonials.

  Human curiosity must have possessed the reluctant man because he motioned me into the kitchen. I heled my hands up over my head, and I moved carefully. He looked to have been trained well, but I didn’t trust anyone’s constitution with my life at the end of a barrel.

  “Ok, I’m just going to lower my hands, cut the sink on, and I am going to wash off my face. That is all I am doing. I give you my word, so please, do not fucking shoot me!”

  My sentence might have started in a very submissive manner, but the dominance in my blood came out in my voice by the end. Lucky for me, this man seemed to be a very curious, or just a very patient man. He didn’t fire at the suddenly aggravated sounding detective being held at gunpoint.

  “ Okay, just don’t reach for your gun.”

  I nodded, and said, “You have my word, I will not move anywhere near it since I believe we are on the same side.”

  His frown was instant, and my nerves were boiling my blood now. I felt like I was getting naked for the first time, just as I had so many years ago the night, I lost my maidenhood.

  I cut on the water and I leaned down, and I splashed the cold water on my face, and I felt heated nerves firing so much, that I barely noticed how cold the water was. I washed thoroughly, and the clay-like make-up began to slowly dilute. A stream of brightly colored skin-like makeup
washed free into the drain. With it, my anonymity washed away. I had no real evidence that this man, or his wife, were Revolutionaries. I had a wild theory, one that fit the evidence, and I was about to expose this man to the fact that I was the most wanted criminal in the British Empire. What’s worse, he worked at the very top of a new paper! I was showing my true face to a news man!

  My instructors at the CILD academy had always told me that I never did anything in halves. They never knew how right they were! If I was wrong, then I would have to flee. My head was worth a lot to the Brits. I had defied them, a twelve-year-old child who had killed two of their assassins and escaped with my life. I had murdered a string of bobbies along the way, concealing my face from the “law.” I’m sure some of those blue-coats were not bad people, but I had to kill to survive for so very long. There was a deeper reason why Sting trusted me because I was something so very akin to him. I was a good person, caught in a tangled web of crime, and justice.

  I reached over, and I wiped off my face with a small hand-towel nearby, and I turned slowly. His grip tightened on his small revolver, shock played on his features, followed closely by realization.

  “I’m not working for the Brits, that would be very contrary to my own agenda.”

  He lowered the gun, and he stuffed it into the back of his brown dress pants. His gaze never left my face, mapping the deeply indented slash marks of the gun blade, and the explosive frag pockmarks of the large caliber dispersed blast of the blade’s round as it scored the right side of my face, barely missing its mark. I had dodged just fast enough at twelve, that I was merely scarred deeply, and not killed. A few inches further, and my brains would have painted the same walls that my parent’s lifeblood was still hot and dripping down.

  “Great Spirit, this is not possible!”